


Your Wish Is My Command

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mentions of Abortion, Omega!John, Pilot AU (John Meets Mycroft AFTER Shooting the Cabbie), Scents, Self-Loathing, and Alpha!Sherlock but we don't care about that, mention of MPREG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man who stood in the warehouse; he smelt as heady and invigorating as Sherlock, but without the sour, acidic taint. The waves rolled off the man, and John felt himself falter with near every step; the urge to kneel before him overwhelming. This was it; this was what the others described, the urge, the desire to submit, to be claimed. This is what they meant; how you knew when you found your mate.</p><p>And John had no idea who this man was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Our Boys Meet in Familiar Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [HumsHappily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily) for the beta!

To be honest, John was just placating Stamford. The chances that this bloke, an unmated alpha who was also apparently an undesirable flatmate, would want to bunk with him were highly unlikely.  He stepped into the lab, a bit different but still familiar enough, and caught the sight of a mop of curly hair. He followed behind Stamford, waiting to be properly introduced. Stamford just stood, watching them, a smart arse grin on his face as the alpha began to speak.

It didn’t hit him at all once, it seeped through the room and blew in on the soft breezes sent forth from the ventilation and cooling shafts. It tickled his senses, and before he was entirely aware of it, his body began to respond. He took long, deep breaths as his own pheromones began to leak from his pores, and it wasn’t until his cock was half hard that he realized his mouth was near watering at the scent the alpha in the room was emitting.

It was nothing like they’d said it would be. Scenting one’s mate, according to legends and films and all the magazines was, well, like orgasm. Hard to describe, but you’d know immediately if it had happened. But this was far more subtle than that.

He wasn’t sure if the bloke even noticed him, let alone his scent.

As he stepped closer to retrieve his phone, he caught an acidic tang in the air. Amongst the heady aroma, existed a trace, an off note, like one wrong key in a melody. Like a banquet, sweltering with meat and fats and herbs and spices, vegetables and puddings, then being poured a glass of sour milk.

John didn’t know how to act, how to respond. But it seemed unwise to let the opportunity pass him by, and so when the bloke, Sherlock, offered him a place, he figured he might as well show up. That night at Angelo’s, the pieces started to fall into place. Sherlock seemed disinterested in mating, in relationships, and perhaps that was the off note that John noticed. That they were almost perfectly compatible, if John didn’t mind suffering his heats alone. He’d known omegas that preferred to spend their heats by themselves, some disinterested or some repulsed by the sex that often came with them. But those omegas were mated to alphas who felt the same; a good five percent of matings were platonic matings, bonded solely by bite in lieu of knotting.

He never considered that he might end up like that. Perhaps even considering it at all was pointless. Sherlock didn’t just seem disinterested in sex, he seemed disinterested in any relationship entirely. Could it be that Sherlock was John’s mate, but John wasn’t Sherlock’s?

John wasn’t entirely sure it mattered. Sherlock was brilliant, and though he could be the irritating arse, he was also phenomenal and exhilarating, and everything John never knew he needed. The night was a whirlwind; Sherlock being kidnapped, drugged, and John breaking and entering the abandoned flat across the way to protect him. John had known Sherlock all of a day, and killed a man to save him. Perhaps he and Sherlock _were_ mates.

-o-

John took a walk to clear his head; he knew his heat would be coming in the next month. He needed to figure out the best way to approach Sherlock about whether he should stay in the flat. He felt oddly devoted to Sherlock, even without a mating. The detective clearly needed someone to keep an eye on him, feed him up, and help run interference with the Yard. John wondered how Sherlock’d come this far on his own, given his complete lack of care and attention to his personal health and antisocial behaviors.

He walked further, pleased with the recovery in his leg, and noticed that as he passed by the pay phone, it rang. The last one had done that as well, and as John thought on it, every phone he’d passed in the last four blocks had rang as he passed.

He answered, and shortly wished he hadn’t. The thinly veiled threat persuaded him into the car. The cold beta beside him and the manufactured scentlessness of the car set his teeth on edge, and by the time they pulled up to the warehouse, adrenaline was flowing through his body, setting all his senses on edge.

For a moment, John thought the scent was a result of his hyper-focused state, but it took only a few steps more before he nearly swooned from the pheromones. The man who stood in the warehouse; he smelt as heady and invigorating as Sherlock, but without the sour, acidic taint. The waves rolled off the man, and John felt himself falter with near every step; the urge to kneel before him overwhelming. This was it; this was what the others described, the urge, the desire to submit, to be claimed. This is what they meant; how you knew when you found your mate.

And John had no idea who this man was.

He kept walking, fighting his instincts, fighting every urge he had until they were only a meter or two apart. He stopped, falling naturally into parade rest in his alert state. He warily examined the man, his alpha, who looked like no one John had ever been attracted to before. His features were sharp and his dress immaculate and he held himself with the haughty self assurance.

John looked him in the eyes, to catch himself being examined as well. The stormy eyes flickered over his person, from his slacks to his hand to his hair and John got the distinct impression he was being catalogued. He waited until the man’s eyes reached his own. They held contact for several moments; and then the man smiled with a knowing smirk.

“Well, Dr. Watson,” and his voice was posh and rich, dripping down John’s spine and pooling low in his belly. John gulped. “Tell me about your association with Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s eyes narrowed, “I’m not sure how that is any of your business.” Scent aside, he was wary of how this first meeting was developing. How this man knew his name, his flat mate, and had considerable resources at his disposal, John didn’t know. Furthermore, the man’s insistence on knowing about Sherlock only rang further alarms. At best, he was an overly jealous alpha, at worst, he was the Moriarty Sherlock had been obsessing since the cabbie’s dying confession. John wasn’t sure which he preferred.

“I assure you, it is. I do so worry about him,” The bloke took a step toward him, and John fought the urge to drop to his knees and scent the man’s groin, to inhale the pheromones that were driving him mad; to succumb to his bodily lust. He’d never been overwhelmed by a scent before, and John cursed his legs as they quivered. “I was planning to offer you a substantial sum to keep me well informed; to apprise me of his daily habits. I’m no longer sure that’s necessary.”

“I have no interest in informing you on Sherlock Holmes,” John declared, the soldier coming out. He spoke with more authority than he felt, but he was willing to risk the consequences, if this alpha was the domineering type.  

“Your interest is irrelevant,” the man said, and motioned to the chair to John’s right. “Please, **have a seat**.” John heard the command, and he fought his body’s instincts to defer and submit. He twitched with the effort, but remained standing regardless, his eyes never leaving the alpha’s to only further his defiance. It would be a cold day in hell before he surrendered to command.

It took John a moment to find his voice again. “I’d rather not. If you have nothing else to say, I’ll be on my way.”

The bloke regarding him with calculating eyes, for several silent, awkward moments. Finally he spoke again, his tone warm and inviting, “Excellent, you will do nicely.”

John paused, “I’m sorry?”

“I’ll send a car to Baker Street tomorrow evening. We should meet more civilly before your upcoming heat.”

John gaped and stuttered, “Ex-excuse me? After this, after being kidnapped, threatened, and ordered about, you expect that I’ll be going with you willingly?”

“I know you will, Dr. Watson. I send at car at 7pm. I look forward to it.” The man smiled and gestured to the exit, “Anthea will see you home.”

John turned and walked out without another word.

_What the bloody hell had just happened?_

-o-

John bounded up the stairs, reveling in his diminished limp. He’d found himself walking near everywhere; but he knew his excitement would soon wane. Inevitability of the human condition and all that. He went straight the kitchen, pulling an ESB out of the fridge before even removing his coat. Sherlock watched him from his experiment on the kitchen table.

“Well, I was kidnapped today,” John announced conversationally as he popped the cap of the beer. He took a long, refreshing swig, then looked at Sherlock, “Any idea what that’s about?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stood and crowded John’s space, taking deep breaths to scent the hormonal haze emanating from John’s person. Once satisfied, he went back to his microscope, “Bloody Mycroft. Did he offer you money?”

“Sort of? He said he’d planned to offer me a large sum of money, but then decided it wasn’t necessary. Who the hell was that?”

“Not necessary? Why not? We could have used the extra funds.”

“Posh tosser thought he could dominate me,” John ignored the starlight still dancing through his nerves at the memory of the man’s scent and gulped down another third of the ESB. “And seriously, who the fucking hell was he?”

“Dominate you? Why would he think that would work? That’s only effective in mates. ”

John finished off the beer with one last swallow, “Yeah, well…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Sherlock’s head snapped in John’s direction, and he snarled, “Him? He’s your mate? Oh! Of course he bloody is!” Sherlock stood, knocking over an empty Erlenmeyer flask, waving his hands dramatically as he flounced about the kitchen and living room. “Never, _nothing_. I get nothing. The fat git takes everything.”

John rubbed his eyes with his palm. He’d hoped Sherlock could clear everything up, but he only felt more adrift. “Sherlock, what are you on about? The bloke wasn’t even fat. He’s barely got more meat than you.”

“Oh, don’t let him fool you. Before uni he lived off cakes and sweet and anything else he could shove down that haughty throat of his.”

“Before uni? How long have you know this man?”

“How long?” Sherlock asked, then laughed derisively, “Don’t be an idiot, John. My brother kidnapped you to see if you’d spy on me for him. He’s already got eyes everywhere, but no, what better than to bribe the new flatmate?”

“Your brother?! That man- _he_ \- was your brother.” John exclaimed, then nodded as he considered their similar scents and all seeing eyes. “That… makes sense, actually.”

Sherlock fell back onto the couch, limbs akimbo, and draped an arm dramatically over his eyes, “When will you be moving out?”

“Who says I am?” John asked, brow furrowed. The thought hadn’t actually occurred to him. Living with that bloke, Mycroft? John wasn’t even sure if he liked him, let alone be willing to make any tangible commitment. “He’s a right arse, from what I can tell.”

Sherlock lifted his arm from his face and looked at John with something like a smile, “You, John, are an excellent judge of character.”


	2. The Start of Something Brilliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Janto321](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321) for the beta!

John could smell Mycroft before the alpha even came up the stairs. Which is to say, about a half second after Sherlock recognized the man’s distinctive step-turn-push of opening the front door of Baker St. Sherlock scowled, and John crossed his legs in an attempt to make his burgeoning erection just a touch less obvious. Not that there was any use in hiding anything from the Holmes brothers, but John felt comforted by the useless gesture. Mycroft walked into the sitting room, and the full force of his scent enveloped John, swirling around him like cherry blossoms dancing the breeze, and John’s knees were weak with want. The chair, obviously unaffected, held him upright, for which John was inordinately thankful.

“Get out Mycroft, John doesn’t want you.” Sherlock sneered as Mycroft came into view. John didn’t bother correcting him. It was close enough to the truth right now, he supposed.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft replied, and John waited on baited breath to hear what his alpha had to say. He barely knew his own response, he hoped Mycroft would answer the question for him. “I intrigue him. He doesn’t like the man he met, who would care for you regardless of circumstance, but he may care for me, as we have the common ground of caring for you.”

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow, but as he examined John, he found his flat mate turning a lovely shade of mauve.

“Christ, Sherlock, what do you expect? He’s my bloody mate! Of course I’m curious!”

John watched as Sherlock shut down, mouth clamped, eyes narrowed, and he turned away. “Fine. Everyone leaves in the end.”

John went to protest, but Mycroft beat him to it, “Don’t be dramatic, Sherlock. I’m not taking him away from you. It’s one date. And if it’s more, there is still no reason he can’t accompany you to cases. Imagine it, Sherlock, who else would be a perfect match for me, but someone who can tolerate  _ you _ ?”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, then shut with a snap. Mycroft smiled.

“Dr. Watson, would you please accompany me to dinner?”

John stood, and brushed down his cardigan with nervous energy. He was wearing one of the casual outfits he found most flattering on himself, though he’d never admit to Sherlock that he’d been planning to accept Mycroft’s invitation the moment he realized the two men were related.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” John didn’t believe for a second that either Holmes bought his nonchalance, but he attempted it nonetheless. He walked through the door Mycroft had opened for him, and Mycroft followed closely behind.

-o-

John was thankful, this time, for the sterility of Mycroft’s car. The thought of being stuck, encased in the alpha’s thick delicious scent, might have driven John around the bend. Perhaps the filter was as much for Mycroft’s benefit as it was his, but John was grateful for the opportunity to maintain his dignity.

John broke the silence first, “So, it was a test then? To see if I’d turn on your brother.”

“A test of sorts. Had you accepted my offer, I would have utilized you for a short time, then had you extracted.”

“Extracted?” John raised a brow skeptically.

“Euphemistically.” Mycroft smirked.

“And you knew I was your mate?”

“Not until the moment your scent hit me. Quite a lovely scent it is, too.”

John blushed and nodded, “Ta.”

“I was hesitant at first, I must admit. I had long since given up hope of a suitable mate. After a time, I determined it was all for the best. In my position, a docile, sweet natured, compliant omega would never suit.”

John shifted his shoulder and set his face grim, ready to defend himself, but Mycroft cut him off before he even opened his mouth.

“No, no, Dr. Watson. Think.” Mycroft tapped the side of his temple with his fingers, and John paused, before dipping back into the memory of their first meeting.

John’s eyebrows rose as the realization dawned on him, “The command.”

Mycroft licked his lips and a smile beamed across his face. “The command,” he confirmed, “And why is that significant?”

“If I can resist the command of my mate, I can resist any command. I am not a liability.”

“And clever enough.”

“Hardly. I’ve seen you Holmes’ at work.”

“I’ve long since been able to differentiate the intelligence, academic and otherwise, of those around me. Consider it one of my many gifts. You, John Watson, are exactly what I need. And it appears that our instinct knows it as well.”

John felt his face get warm, but did his best to keep the blush of pleasure from breaking his calm demeanor, “So. Dinner.”

-o-

Two minutes out from the restaurant, and John could barely contain himself. John gripped onto his leg tightly, his knuckles turning white as the scent filters in the car struggled to clean the air of the pheromones of two unbounded mates in such close proximity. John took to breathing through his mouth, which marginally helped his throbbing arousal, but had the negative effect of making his panting all the more obvious. He took comfort in the fact he was not alone. Mycroft had sweat beading at his temples, and his eyes were wide and dark with pleasure.

“I don’t… “ John hesitated, but his urges overwhelmed him in waves, “Fuck, I’m not sure I can make it through dinner.”

“Dr. Watson, I am duly prepared. Trust me,” Mycroft offered, but even as he spoke, he loosened his tie ever so slightly, and John watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Yeah, I’m not sure about trusting you. You’re still a right shady bloke. But you can at least call me John. Doctor is awfully formal for a date.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mycroft pondered, “My liaisons have been more  _ diplomatic _ in nature.”

“Diplomatic?”

“I have found I can satisfy my baser needs while simultaneously demonstrating my powers of persuasion in negotiations,” Mycroft smirked with self-assured confidence.

John’s mouth parted slightly in surprise, and asked, unable to hide a hint of awe, “Are you… are you James  _ fucking _ Bond?”

“Holmes, Mycroft Holmes,” the ginger joked, tilting his head to deliver a sultry smile with lidded, suggestive eyes.

John huffed a breathless chuckle, “ _ Christ _ , Mycroft. You might have had more success if you’d tried that yesterday.” He felt another wave of pheromones permeate the air, betraying his arousal.

Mycroft blushed red as he inhaled, and his breath quickened. As the car pulled up to the restaurant, he muttered quietly, “Thank God.”

John scrambled out of the car before the driver could step out of the vehicle, and he admired Mycroft’s ability to stay seated until the door was opened for him. He watched the tall alpha stand straight with a frankly alluring confident power, and John licked his lips.

Perhaps nature did know what it was doing.

Feeling a bit more sure of himself, he let Mycroft place a hand at the small of his back, and guide him in the door. Just Mycroft’s touch, even through the cardigan and dress shirt John’d worn, was enough to send fire through his veins, and he felt, to his dismay, the warmth and slick of arousal between his legs. Gooseflesh erupted over his body, and the hairs stood on the back of his neck.

Mycroft leaned down to speak softly in his ear, “You are driving me to distraction, John. You are certainly not alone.” He stood straight again and the maitre’d spoke up as soon as she saw her clients.

“Mr. Holmes, always a pleasure! Your usual table, sir?”

“Not today, Miss Holloway, I’ve reserved the private room.”

The maitre’d looked down to her notes, “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I see that here. If you and your companion would follow me?”

She sashayed through the dining room with ease and opened a door in the back left corner. The room was luxurious, but subtle, and included a table for dining as well as a lounge area for entertaining.

“Shall I send in the waitstaff?” she asked.

Mycroft smiled, “I’d rather have a few moment first; I’ll call when we’re ready?”

“Excellent, Mr. Holmes, sir,” and she left the room, closing the door behind her.

-o-

John stood, hiding his nerves behind his familiar parade rest stance. Slowly, Mycroft turned, and John’s breath hitched at the dark, predatory look in his eyes. He gulped, and Mycroft was quickly upon him, fingers running up through his hair, and the other hand pulling John close by the waist until there was no space between them. Mycroft tugged gently on the short blond hairs, prompting John to expose the long flesh of neck. Mycroft dipped down, and with a warm, wet tongue, slicked a broad stripe from John’s collarbone up to the shell of his ear. Mycroft let out a soft moan, and murmured against John’s neck, “Delicious.”

John buckled, and Mycroft held him tight until his legs found purchase again. Mycroft chuckled quietly, and leaned in to capture the omega’s lips. Mycroft was warm, and John eagerly kissed back, anxious to taste every bit of his mate. He panted as Mycroft’s hands roamed his body, and the alpha took the opportunity to dip in his tongue, making John gasp even further. For a moment, John felt like putty in his alpha’s touch, weak and malleable, the taste and scent of Mycroft deteriorating any resolve he might have had, and he let it play out for a few seconds longer before coming to his senses.

John surged, using his strength to push Mycroft backwards until they hit the edge of the Chesterfield and collapsed together onto its cushions. John quickly straddled him, and from his now higher vantage point, took control of the kiss. He pulled back, teasing Mycroft, nipping at his lips, leaving his mouth bereft as John wandered, laying kiss upon kiss upon the alpha’s pale, tender skin. He slowly circled his hips, letting the small bulge of his cock press hard against the alpha’s much larger member, near breathless at the friction. The surge of pleasure jolted through him, and John nearly succumbed to the instinct to vigorously writhe against Mycroft until he came in waves of bliss. He shuddered at the thought, the urge near irresistible, but he held on; John knew that the shock and awe of being filled, being taken, pulsing full with the thick throb of alpha would be well worth the wait.

John teased at Mycroft, yanking down his jacket, beaming widely as he heard the buttons on the expensive suit pop and clatter against the floor. Mycroft opened his mouth and John captured his protest on his tongue, tasting the sweetness of the alpha’s dark and heady scent as the Mycroft’s pheromones heightened further, his body flooding its system with adrenaline and instinct to pounce and take what was his, to  not submit willingly under John. That Mycroft’s control over his instincts kept him from fighting, that he eagerly allowed John to overpower him, kept John’s fingers near frantic to undress him. John hated nothing more than stereotypical cocksure, bullying, overconfident alpha behavior that was stupidly prized in society, and Mycroft’s understated demonstration of authority was anything but. Mycroft’s restraint was the ultimate display of his dominance, and John was suddenly desperate to see Mycroft lose it.

John knelt up high, and pulled off his cardigan, dress shirt and vest. He wrestled with the dress shirt, his cuffs getting caught before he yanked them off with the same force he’d ripped off Mycroft’ suit jacket, and his own buttons joined Mycroft’s on the floor. As his skin, his flesh was laid bare, Mycroft growled, running hands up from the small of John’s back up to his shoulder blades, gripping the tanned muscles and digging in his fingers, trying his damnedest to keep his own instincts under control. John let a low whine echo out his throat and Mycroft smirked against his chest. He spoke, the words hot against John’s skin, the whisper against the thin hairs setting his teeth on edge, “John, should you let me, I’d quite like to have you, right here, right now.”

“Oh, God yes,” John surprised himself with the eager admission, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He went to climb off of Mycroft, and stumbled. He fell to the ground, but didn’t bother to right himself as he unzipped his pants and kicked his slacks off. His pheromones had begun to override any sense of propriety and he laid sprawled on the floor in his pants as he looked up at Mycroft.

The alpha slowly tugged at his tie, but John saw his hands shake as he did so, and he beamed. He scrambled up onto his knees, and went to work on Mycroft’s belt, eager to suck and taste and breathe in the thick, cloying alpha scent that he’d been craving for the last forty some odd years, apparently. He tugged down Mycroft’s slacks, and reached for his pants, looking up to see Mycroft staring down at him, hands frozen, mouth slack, lungs breathless with pleasure, dress shirt half off, stuck and strangled by the tie he’d forgotten about entirely.

“Christ,” John gasped at the dark heat in Mycroft’s eyes.

“P-Please-“ Mycroft stuttered, “Do continue.”

 


	3. Up or Down or All Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Hums-Happily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily) for the beta!

John grinned, all teeth, and pulled down Mycroft’s pants revealing a thick, long, alpha cock, with a pulsing vein up the left side and fat head that John instinctively knew would perfect hit all the right spots during his heats. No synthetic alpha cock ever worked quite right, and now John knew why.

John teased Mycroft’s cockhead, running his tongue around the lip where it flared out. He held back Mycroft’s hips as they bucked, eager to accept more of John’s hot, wet mouth. John smirked, slowly laving the head, teasing Mycroft’s slit, two hand on his hips and slowly savoring the wave of alpha pheromones. He ignored his own throbbing cock, and the slick wetness between his arse cheeks, the glands in his cloaca preparing it slowly. It was nothing as damp and dripping as his heat, but he felt confident that he’d be adequately prepared for the behemoth cock in front of him, since Mycroft wouldn’t knot unless John was in heat. John used both hands to stroke the long member, his fingers from just one hand not quite reaching around the girth, while he kept playing, licking, sucking at the head of Mycroft’s cock, wanting to drive the proper bloke over the bloody edge.

Mycroft threaded his long fingers into John’s graying blonde hairs, and tugged slightly, causing John to gasp with pleasure and open his mouth to accept more of Mycroft’s endowment. John let one hand wander down to the large bollocks, feeling the swell of excessive alpha ejaculate, and Mycroft bucked again, nearly choking John with the fullness of his cock as it prodded the back of his throat. John hadn’t ever fellated a cock so large, only having been with omegas and betas prior to this, and through the addled hormonal haze, still had time to wonder how anyone was ever capable of taking the whole of an alpha down their throat.

The slickness leaking down between John’s thighs tickled mildly, and John became suddenly aware of how badly he wanted to be taken, fucked, claimed by Mycroft Holmes. He pushed Mycroft away by the thighs, and Mycroft stumbled back onto the Chesterfield, falling, legs still trapped by his slacks and pants, knees spread wide to accommodate the fullness of his bollocks and thickness of his cock.

John jumped up, straddling his alpha, and asked quickly, “Okay?”

“Please, John,” Mycroft kept his voice low, but the gasping catch in his throat betrayed how desperate his begging was,  “Please.”

John looked into Mycroft’s eyes, how beautiful the cloudy grey sky in those irises looked, and he wondered if he’d get to be awash in their comfort for the rest of the days of his life. He clearly took just a moment too long getting lost in Mycroft’s stare, because suddenly he felt nimble fingers, slick with his own juices. They teased the very edge of his arse, one then two quick fingers slipping deep into John’s desperately empty, open hole.

John moaned, loud and wanton, then clamped his mouth shut as he recalled where he was.

Mycroft took the fingers away, wet with his slick, and slipped them between John’s lips, “No, I want to hear you. Even if it’s just to listen to you moan around my fingers.”

John complied, making quiet, obscene noises as he sucked his own taste off Mycroft’s fingers, laving them with his tongue much like he had been treating the alpha’s cock earlier, allowing his fervent moans to echo out of his throat.

“Lovely, John, you are lovely,” Mycroft panted, and John felt the sudden pressure of Mycroft’s cock against his tight pucker.

John gasped and he stopped moving entirely, focused on the singular feeling of Mycroft’s bulging, engorged cockhead slowly breaching his body. He felt the full sensation of Mycroft entering him, opening him like his body was meant to be used, accommodating the generosity of Mycroft’s cock, and John whined with ecstasy as his whole self blossomed, gaping, to enclose almost all of his alpha, all that he could get outside of heat, and he felt exactly where inside him that Mycroft hit, rubbed, teased and taunted, all those little places no other person, no other toy, nothing could ever reach and John moaned, nearly cried with how magnificently Mycroft completed him, occupied him, and once sat fully seated, abundantly distended on Mycroft’s cock, he nearly wept with the pleasure.

It was Mycroft’s nudge, his hands upon John’s waist that reminded him that there was even more excitement to be sought, and he let Mycroft lift his hips and slam back into him. The resulting shock caused John to groan anxiously, craving more. He began to ride Mycroft, bouncing up and down the plentiful length Mycroft provided. He forgot himself, his surroundings, and he buried himself into Mycroft’s neck to scent and gasp and huff for air as he fucked himself as hard and as quickly as he could on the alpha, mind near gone with the bliss of it.

Mycroft held hard onto his hips, bit his lip to keep quiet, to keep from making noise, while he pounded into John, and his utterances finally began to escape his throat, “Christ, John, so tight, perfect body… it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.” John continued to bury himself down, to perfect himself as deep as possible, and Mycroft couldn’t stop his praises, “Better than every alpha, every beta, every omega ever, fuck John, perfect John.”

John felt a flare of jealousy, and he leaned into Mycroft, nipping at the man’s lips, kissing him with vicious possession as he chased his own release. Mycroft gasped under John’s assault, and with sudden clarity, reached down to grasp John’s cock, which fit almost fully in his palm, the smaller, but more sensitive cock of a fertile omega. John cried out, tossing his head back, and with Mycroft’s left hand on his waist, his right hand on his cock, John rode the waves of rapture as he came, cock pulsing small spurts of come over Mycroft’s abdomen, and his cloaca tightening, releasing thick, drenching waves of slick over Mycroft’s sumptuous member.

Mycroft stuttered, “Oh- John, Oh-“ and with a few more thrusts, grip tight, he bucked hard and fast into John’s wet heat, releasing thick ropes into John’s body, and the pleasure, the bliss escaping from his body nearly drained him of all consciousness, his body collapsing under the onslaught, boneless and gasping as John draped himself over Mycroft’s chest.

Together, they heaved, breathless from delight; John nearly comatose with physical elation, Mycroft nearly empty from the spent, desperate need to fill. Minutes passed before they could speak, and more still until they could dress themselves.

Once settled, Mycroft smiled at John, “Shall I call them to take our order?”

-o-

Dinner was delicious and John felt awash in sensory pleasures; passionate couplings, rich, savory foods, warm whiskey coating his throat. He placed his fork and knife on plate, and sipped on a glass of ice water as Mycroft slowly finished up. Mycroft eyed him hungrily as he ordered dessert, something that sounded luxurious and elegant, and John wasn’t sure he could stomach much more of this extravagant treatment.

“This is more than I think my palate can handle,” he told Mycroft, warning him that he might not be able to help share dessert.

“Yes, the constitution of a soldier,” Mycroft lamented, but then peaked up, “You’ll be adjusted soon enough.”

John’s smile dimmed, and he asked, “What do you mean, soon enough?”

“I have a live-in cook; she’s quite talented. You won’t have to resort to take away curry and day old risotto,” Mycroft waved the imaginary offenders away, “I’ll take good care of you, John.”

John face fell further, “I don’t need to be taken care of. I’ve managed just fine on my own, thank you.”

“Oh! Not at all,” Mycroft caught the disagreeable John’s shift in tone, “I know you are capable and independent. You are strong, firm,  and I find it an intensely attractive quality about you. But I fail to see how that implies that I can’t, as your alpha, take care of you. To improve your quality of life.”

“It implies two things about you,” John tossed his napkin onto his plate, “The first, that you don’t genuinely believe I can care for myself, or you would never suggest otherwise. And the second, that you’re a liar. And you can’t be trusted.” John stood hastily, the chair tipping back and falling over.

Mycroft stood too, faced flushed in frustration, “Not a word I have spoken has been a lie!”

“No, but you explicitly told your brother you wouldn’t interfere and now here you are, trying to keep me locked up in your home like some pet omega. Fuck off, Mycroft. I haven’t needed an alpha for almost forty years, and I certainly don’t need one now.”

Flustered at how quickly the conversation had turned on him, Mycroft sputtered, “John, I’m afraid you’ve- you’ve misunderstood.” When John reached the door, Mycroft blurted out desperately, “John.  ** Stop ** .”

John’s rage took on a dangerous smirk, and Mycroft tensed waiting, instantly realizing the damage his command had done. John just chuckled low and deep, “The sex is good, but it’s not  _ that _ good. I’ll find my own way home.”

John slammed the door of the private room behind him.

-o-

_ The nerve, the fucking nerve of alphas. _ John growled as he strode down the street; deciding to walk off his frustration and anger, before catching a cab back to Baker Street. Why did every alpha assume that his main goal in life was to find someone to take care of him, coddle him, treat him like some sort of bloody prize rather that a human being?

Mycroft may have been the least offensive of interested alphas; and John’d put up with unbelievable shite as an omega in the RAMC, but that didn’t mean John was willing to settle for “least offensive.” If this is what nature assigned to him as his best option, then it was clear to John that he’d be a single omega the rest of his life. Better the condescension of strangers than patronization in his own household.

And the attempt to dominate him? John felt his rage boil to the surface yet again. He’d already proven he could withstand command; did Mycroft think just one bout of sex, granted euphorically fantastic sex, but just sex nonetheless, was enough to change all of John’s values, morals and personality? Just how fucking highly did alphas think of their own cocks? It wasn’t a goddamned magic wand.

He steamed the rest of the way back to the flat, never bothering to catch a cab. John figured the walk was helpful in offsetting the calorically dense meal he’d consumed at the restaurant. He stormed into the flat and nearly stormed back out; Sherlock’s scent was too close for comfort. He pounded up the stairs, tossed his coat on its hook and fell back into his arm chair with a disgusted huff of air.

“Dinner went well,” Sherlock mocked, from his position, eyes closed and supine on the couch.

“He’s just like every other alpha out there,” John spat.

Sherlock leaned up on one elbow, open his eyes, and quirked one eyebrow.

John barked a laugh, feeling the first hint of a good mood since dessert, “You know what I mean, berk. You’d be bloody offended if I said you were anything like anyone else, let alone another alpha.”

Sherlock shrugged his agreement, and fell back onto the sofa, “Regardless, would you shower? Fuck my brother all you want, but I don’t need his stench in my flat.”

John stood, understanding Sherlock’s request, and frankly needing to get Mycroft’s scent, that invigorating  aroma, off his body. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to worry about  that ever again.”

Sherlock just hummed, and John could detect a note of doubt. But it wasn’t worth pursuing, and he made his way to the bathroom for a nice, hot, cleansing shower.


	4. The Coming Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [HumsHappily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily) for the beta!

John’s anger burned hot for a few days, then dissipated, leaving behind only tepid disappointment. For most of his life, he, like most of population, had nervously anticipated meeting his mate. After he’d hit forty, he’d been trying to tamper down any expectations, certain that he’d never find his alpha, but it didn’t stop a spark of excitement from hiding deep within him. And now? Now the fire had flamed, and he was left with cold, dirty ashes where his hope used to reside.

John sulked for a bit more, was short with Sherlock, and spending far too much effort to be cordial to his patients. But within a week he found it hard to put too much stock into a relationship that never had existed in the first place. He decided to spend his day off doing a few nice quiet things for himself; a nice fry up for breakfast, a walk through the park to the bookstore, buy a nice paperback, and read in front of the fire until the sun fell behind the city’s skyline.

Plans that were immediately dashed when John woke with a start to a crash and small explosion. The fire alarm went off and Sherlock cursed, Mrs. Hudson’s steps echoed up the stairs, and he heard her exclamation.

“Stay back, Mrs. Hudson!” John heard Sherlock warn, “You best let me handle this one.”

John sighed and threw back his covers. If Sherlock were volunteering to clean, whatever happened was likely toxic. He tossed on a old pair of jeans a stained t-shirt, and pulled on a pair of trainers, not knowing exactly what he’d find all over his kitchen floor.

He jogged the stairs, and into a cloud of yellowish smoke. He coughed, covered his mouth with his shirt, and rushed to the windows, opening them wide to air out the room. He stood nearby, gulping fresh air, and hollered across to Sherlock, whose form he could barely see scuttling about the kitchen.

“Sherlock! Is this smoke toxic? Do I need to call 999?”

“No, it’s just the liquid that’s corrosive,” Sherlock answered, sounding irritated. “But don’t you worry, I’m sure my dearest brother will be here any second to check in.”

John’s breath caught in his throat in a moment of panic, but anger quickly took its place, “Are you serious? He’ll come here to check on me?”

Sherlock laughed, tinged with bitterness, “I’m sure checking on you will be a pleasant side effect. No, my brother has been tirelessly overbearing my entire life. If an alarm sounds, he arrives, without fail, in under ten minutes.”

John paused, “Why’s he like that with you? You’re an adult, an alpha, and employed, albeit unconventionally.”

A voice broke through the haze, the cool voice warming John like cold bourbon blossoming in the pit of his stomach. “It is, John, simply who I am. I care for those who are important to me.”

Sherlock snorted, “You have all of England to mother, Mycroft, yet it is still not enough.”

“It matters not the size, nor the necessity, but the depth of my instinct.”

Sherlock snarled, exasperated, “Yes, your  _ instinct _ .” Sherlock stalked over to John, “Mycroft fancies himself a pack leader.”

Mycroft bristled, tightening his grip on his umbrella. This was clearly an old argument between them. He turned to John, “Pack leader is a pejorative term, as I’m sure you well know; a throwback to our primitive ancestors. I do have Pack Compulsion-” and Mycroft paused as John’s eyes grew large.

John knew of Pack Compulsion, learned it during his psychiatric rotation, but knew very little about its treatments. Characterized by the anxiety ridden desire to pathologically protect the pack, it once had practical evolutionary implications, but could often be debilitating in the modern era. The consequences of John’s snap judgments were beginning to reveal themselves, and he felt a sinking, dreadful rock growing in his chest.

Mycroft continued,  “I’ve undergone mild cognitive behavioral therapies to adjust only as much as I need to allow myself to function. It’s granted me a considerable capacity to do my job, to aid those in need, in our country and in others; thus I have not medicated nor undergone thyroid surgeries for hormone correction.”

“Not that I haven’t tried,” Sherlock muttered.

“Ah yes,” Mycroft recalled with a smile, “What an embarrassing time for you.”

Sherlock scowled, the reminder of being bested by his brother sat poorly with him. “Well, I think you can see you are not needed here. Get out.”

“So the cleaning crew on its way? Should they turn around as well?” Mycroft asked, and John had to hide a smile. Appealing to Sherlock’s deep seated hatred of cleaning was brilliant, and John watched with amusement as Sherlock tried to maintain his disinterested expression without rejecting the free help.

“Turn around, stay. It makes no difference to me,” he shrugged with false indifference, and both John and Mycroft turned away to smirk at his acquiescence. John caught Mycroft’s eye through the clearing smoke, and Mycroft opened his expression, dropping the icy front he used on his brother in exchange for the inviting appeal he’d had at dinner before the conversation went tits up.

John read the question on Mycroft’s face,  _ Do you understand, now ? _ And John, he did understand; much better now anyways. But did Mycroft? That constant derision by alphas, the insinuations that John was incapable of caring for himself, that he was somehow less had left him raw, and perhaps those experiences caused him to overreact.

But the command; Mycroft’s command, to stop, as John tried to leave. That Mycroft tried to dominate John as he left.  John’s face fell back into its inscrutable expression, void of character as he recalled the humiliating, degrading behavior. Mycroft’s brow fell, and he looked down at his feet, twirling the umbrella on its point.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Sherlock tossed his hands in the air as he watched the two men stare awkwardly at each other. He stormed out of the kitchen, leaving the mess behind, and disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

John sighed, and the air mostly clear now, left the window and fell into his chair. He pressed his hands into his face, and was suddenly aware of how poorly he was dressed in comparison to Mycroft. His torn, ratty jeans, the stained shirt, made him inexplicably angry with Mycroft, dressed to the nines in a three piece suit, standing just feet away.

John jumped to his feet, muttered, “Sod this,” and fled up the stairs. He couldn’t be in the same room as that man,  _ his alpha _ . His head was full of smoke and stench and confusion, and it felt fit to burst. John stripped down to pants, pulled on a vest, and laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling. What was he going to do?

-o-

Mycroft left when the cleaning crew arrived, though neither John nor Sherlock left their rooms until after the kitchen was clear of toxins and the flat was once again empty. John wandered around the kitchen, amazed at the thoroughness of Mycroft’s crew; the kitchen hadn’t been this sparkling in the entire time he lived here. He looked in the fridge, and saw fresh foods, produce, dairy and the like, and couldn’t decide if he wanted to grin or growl.

He decided that even though it was midafternoon, he was still craving a fry up. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air, then gathered the ingredients and found himself slipping into a pleasant mood as he cooked. As he made toast, Sherlock finally opened his own door and joined him.

John set out two plates on the table, as it was temporarily free of experiments, glass, chemicals and other unsavory items, and motioned Sherlock over, “You should eat something. You haven’t a case on, so no excuses.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched, and John poured them both juice.

They sat quietly, comfortable with the other’s company as they ate. John read the paper, Sherlock a neurochemistry journal, and John finally felt the calm he’d been hoping to achieve on his day off. He’d finished his plate, and folded the paper back together, when Sherlock first spoke.

“What will you do about your heat?”

The calm retreated as John’s gut twisted at the words; he’d been avoiding the topic for days, though he knew it needed to be addressed. He sighed bitterly, “I don’t know.”

“It will be worse now, if you do it alone,” Sherlock informed him.

John scowled. “Don’t you think I know that?! Don’t you think I know that this will be miserable, painful, and achingly traumatic?! Why else do you think there are a slew of laws and health regulations to protect the rights of both the alpha and the omega during omega heats?” John’s voice began rise and cracked with fury, “Because we all know, don’t we, that omegas are painfully desperate for a good fucking, don’t we? That’s what we’re for, right? To be there, open and eager and out of our minds just so that some alpha has the opportunity for a quick fuck?!”

John swiped his hand across the table, sending the plate flying into against the cupboard, where it shattered into pieces. His chest heaved with the anger and injustice of it all; it wasn’t so much that he hated being an omega, the physiology didn’t bother him much, but he did hate all the assumptions made of his as a result of his biology. His face was flushed with rage, and he looked up to find Sherlock’s ever cool expression. Sherlock, the least stereotypical alpha he’d ever met; looked at him with concern. John’s shoulder’s sagged.

“I know. It’s not you. And honestly, it’s not even Mycroft. It’s just.. forty years of this bullshit and I want to rip my uterus out already,” John rubbed his hands through his hair with an exasperated moan. “Fuck, I wish I’d been born a beta.”

Sherlock looked down to the table as he ate another bite, then looked back at John. “John, my study of omegas is completely academic. But wouldn’t it be better to just-“ Sherlock paused, unsettled and disgusted, “take advantage of your  _ mate _ for the purposes of your heat? Surely it would be less uncomfortable?”

“Right, because a man who can’t deny his pack instincts will be capable of denying his bonding instincts,” John replied caustically.

Sherlock looked confused, “Isn’t that the point?”

John laughed, but ended with a cruel edge to his voice, “Alphas like to think it is. I don’t need to bond, I’m happy just the way I am. So many alphas like to think they are the end all be all of matings… I refuse to mate unless I approve of the match. And after your brother tried to dominate me; there won’t be any bonding there.”

John knelt down to pick up the broken china, gathering the pieces into one hand before tossing them in the bin. He found a wet flannel to clean up the remaining shards and the bits of food still left on the floor. He tossed the cloth in the sink and sank back down against the cabinets and looked up at Sherlock from the floor. The alpha was pretending to read the journal in his hand, but John saw him watching from the corner of his eye.

John pulled up his knees, crossed his arms, and laid his head on his forearms. He took deep, calming breaths, and finally allowed himself to think about his upcoming heat. It would be damn near unbearable, if the research were anything to go by. Torturous enough that it was considered medically unethical to let an omega who’d scented their mate spend a heat without the alpha.  John racked his brain and one lone study, from a decade or so ago, came to mind. It was worth a shot.

He looked to Sherlock, who was still watching him out of the corner of his eye, and spoke into the silent room. “Would you… would you be willing to stay home?”

Sherlock looked up with wide eyes.

“Just for the scent. I don’t want anything from you,” John rushed to say. Once Sherlock’s alarm dissipated he continued, “But, a study a while back showed that just the aroma of a mate can relieve the worst of the discomfort. And well, you and Mycroft, your scents are… similar”

Sherlock took a deliberate bite of his breakfast, and after swallowing, coughed, looked down, and stuttered, “I can- I mean- if you think- if you think it will help, I would willing to stay in the flat for the duration of your heat.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Don't worry. This is not, in any way, shape or form, a Johnlock fic.)


	5. For Better or For Worse?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Chanolay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanolay) for the beta!

John wandered sluggishly around Tesco, his feet and his frown weighed down by an anchor of melancholy, futility, and grim determination. His thoughts raced; of Sherlock, his friendship, and his sacrifice to stay in the flat for five days; of Mycroft and his delicious scent, of the phenomenal sex, of whether he was making a mistake by refusing Mycroft’s offer to see him through his heat. He pushed all that aside, confident in his self reliance, that  he mattered most, that no alpha was necessary to contain, control, or dominate him, and he kept trudging along, picking out hearty quick mixes of nuts and fruit, cases of water, and an omega heat sized bottle of lubricant. He made aggressive eye contact with the cashier, daring the alpha teen to say something smart regarding his purchases, needing to tear down and eviscerate someone, anyone to regain his composure.

The young alpha looked up and saw the rising fury in John’s eyes, and quickly bowed his head. John was half disappointed, but paid for his purchases, and with handfuls of heavy sacks in either hand, made his way back to Baker Street. His heat was scheduled to start tomorrow, and once again, he was thankful not to be in the one percent of omegas with irregular heats. He already received a pension from the military for his uselessness; to be on disability would only exacerbate his humiliation.

Once he reached Baker Street, he met Mrs. Hudson on her way out the door. They exchanged greetings, and Mrs. Hudson gave him an opened eyed look and warned with just a word and a crooked brow, “Mycroft.”

John sighed, and sat on the bottom step. The dull echoes of Sherlock and Mycroft reverberated down the stairs and John hoped they would settle down soon enough before the ice cream in his groceries melted completely. After about three or four minutes, the voices from the upstairs flat grew louder and could clearly be heard  in the foyer.

“You think you understand, but I don’t think you do! You’ve never been in close proximity to an omega in heat!” Mycroft’s smooth voice slid down the walls, pouring over John, the tone raising the hairs on his neck while the words rose his ire.

Sherlock voiced John’s disgust on his behalf, “Do you really think so little of John Watson that you think he will beg me to fuck him?”

“Don’t be stupid. You were always so stupid, Sherlock! The problem isn’t John, the problem is  _ you. _ I have no doubts that John can repress any of his urges. This may be a miserable heat for him, but he is a pillar of self-control. But you little brother, are a fount of self-indulgence and I shall not just stand idly by while you take from John what he has no interest in giving!”

John’s eyes rose at Mycroft’s reveal. It wasn’t that the alpha believed he owned, possessed, or even had the rights to John, but instead that Sherlock might take advantage of him in his weakened, delirious state. He almost smiled. He was still upset with Mycroft, but he was beginning, just a bit, to believe that Mycroft’s insulting behavior at the restaurant might have been an aberration, not his custom.

John stood, realizing that he could easily end this asinine argument. He suspected that alphas quite often forgot that omegas spent each and every pre-bonded heat creating conditions where it would be quite difficult for a wayward alpha to assert themselves. Such was the way with alphas; even the best of them couldn’t quite understand how aggressively defensive omegas fought back and how regularly they did so. John stomped up the stairs, ensuring the two alphas heard him, before walking into kitchen and setting his bags on the counter.

Mycroft stared wide eyed with concern, “You’ve been listening.”

John shrugged, “Enough of it. I appreciate that you trust my self-control, but you needn’t bother.” John reached into the bag and fished out a few products, tossing one to Mycroft and the other to Sherlock. The sudden realization came immediately to both of them, forcibly reminding John how similar the two brothers could look, regardless of their strikingly different appearances.

John explained, though he was sure it wasn’t necessary. He pointed to the object in Mycroft’s hands first, “A bite protector, worn around the neck during heat to ward off unwanted bonding, and-“ pointing to Sherlock, who was examining an aerosol spray, “heat seal. A scent so potently nasty you’ll have no interest in even coming up the stairs, let alone enter my room. Made especially to attack alpha scent receptors. This isn’t my first heat, boys. Just the first since being back from Afghanistan.”

Mycroft looked at John, longing in his eyes, but a firm respect in his features, “I could arrange for an omega or beta to attend to you for the duration, should you prefer.”

“Wouldn’t work,” John shook his head, “I’m counting on the fact that Sherlock’s scent is at least close to yours to reduce the severity of my symptoms.”

“Ah, Youngling et al. 1999,” Mycroft’s face lit up as he recalled the research.

“Not bad,” John smirked, impressed.

“Well, I suppose I should be off, to allow you time to prepare,” Mycroft turned to the door, “Please, John, I know you do not want me here, but if there is anything you need, I have a beta assistant that will get you anything you might want.”

“Thanks, Mycroft,” John said, and found to his surprise, that he meant it.

-o-

John woke, sleepily opening his eyes, reveling in his apparent dreamless slumber. He stretched and yawned, before feeling a mild panic. He jolted upright; it was nine in the morning and he’d overslept. As his feet hit the floor, he saw the case of water sitting in the corner, and sighed a breath of relief. He was off for his heat; he wasn’t late at all.

The temporary reprieve dropped suddenly like a stone in his stomach. His heat. Why hadn’t he woken up miserable, aching, desperate, and ready to damn near claw his pajamas off? His heart raced. His heat had never before been late; it was like clockwork, always arriving overnight.

_ Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit. _

John jumped up from the bed and paced the room for half a minute while his mind ran away from him. Was he sick? Was it cancer? Was he pregnant? How could he be pregnant? He’d hadn’t even had sex in…

_ Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. _

But that wasn’t during his heat; the likelihood of getting pregnant outside a heat was less than one percent. But the odds of him surviving the gunshot in Afghanistan, the odds of him finding Sherlock before Mycroft, any of it? He’d always been one to defy the odds.  

John palmed his face, groaning. He needed to get to a doctor. He couldn’t see Sarah, he couldn’t, didn’t want anyone to know. He tore off his bed clothes. He thrust his legs into his pants, then his jeans, and slipped into a striped black and white jumper. He had to get out of here; he had to go. He had to find out, he had to know, he couldn’t stay here. Not here with all the reminders of what should be happening; he should be writhing with cramps, overheated and chilled at the same time, whimpering, wet, drenching, not here. Not here, with his head swimming and anxiety coursing through his veins.

As he frantically tore around the room, he caught the shine off his combat boots. He stopped suddenly, taking several deep breaths and his training came back to him. He was panicking; a good soldier didn’t panic. He reined in his emotions, blocking them behind walls of razor wire and sandbags, the flood dams protecting his arid, stark rational ability from the outpouring of fear, trepidation, and anger threatening to drown him. He squared his shoulders before opening the door to his room and steadily descending down the stairs.

Sherlock perked up from the couch, “John? John? What are you doing?”

John winced, of course Sherlock was on alert. He kept on jogging down the stairs to the main floor, hollering up to his flat mate, “Nothing, Sherlock, it’s fine!” He opened the door out to the street, and slammed it behind him.

-o-

The cabbie dropped him right outside the office of the doctor who had given him his annual a year prior. He didn’t know the beta woman very well, but all the doctors he did know well, he knew personally. He marched in, with confidence, refusing to kowtow to his instinct to dart in unseen. He walked up to the receptionist, who held up a finger before ending his phone call with another patient, and turned with a plastic smile and a rehearsed greeting, “What can I do for you today?”

“I seem to have missed the start of my heat. I’d like testing, please.”

The receptionist’s fingers flew over the keyboard, “Okay, sir, we’ve got an acute clinical this morning; I can get you in within half an hour. We’ll start with the pregnancy test, and move on from there, shall we?”

John nodded, a stony smile on his face, “Thank you.”

The receptionist handed him a clipboard full of forms, “If you will just fill these out, the nurse will collect you in a few.”

John grabbed the clipboard, and took another deep breath. Something about filling out forms was relaxing; placing tightly formed capital letters in designated rectangles soothed him, and he looked forward to the mindless task to fill up the minutes before being seen. He turned, seeking out an empty seat and found, to his dismay, Mycroft Holmes, balancing his outstretched hands on the handle of his upright umbrella.

John’s shoulders slumped and he grit his teeth together as he stared the older man down. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and nodded to the empty seat beside him. John rolled his eyes and sat down.

“Couldn’t even do this by myself, could I?” John growled.

Mycroft gave him the same look he’d given him the warehouse, head tilted down, with one brow hooked. “Sherlock called, John. He didn’t text, he  _ called _ me. To say you had run out of the flat during your heat. What was I to think?”

“That I was obviously not in heat.”

“I know that now. But I wasn’t about to risk your health and safety on Sherlock’s word,” Mycroft shot back quickly, then his voice softened, “I do know, John, what this means; your lack of heat.”

John shot up straight in his chair with a grimace and a hushed scowl, “Do you, Mycroft? Because I don’t. Pregnancy’s my best bet at this point; cancer the worst. Do any of those sound like reasonable options for you?” His right hand tightened into a fist, and it twitched as he worked on the forms.

Mycroft sat quietly near him, and then slowly pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at the warmth on his neck and without a word, tucked the fabric, heavy with his scent, into John’s clenched right hand.

Without acknowledging the gesture, John pulled the square up to his face and inhaled Mycroft’s scent. His shoulders drooped as the tension faded, and he kept the handkerchief near his face as he continued to fill out paperwork. After twenty minutes, John’s tension had ebbed, and while he felt nervous, his heart had stopped pounding. He returned the square to Mycroft, with a soft, “Thank you.”

Mycroft nodded, afraid to speak in fear of spooking the quiet ease that had settled between them. He carefully folded and return the pocket square to his jacket, and then laid his arm down beside John’s. John, having finished his forms and relaxed back into his seat, glanced down at Mycroft’s silent offer.

Maybe it was the hormones, maybe it was the scent, or perhaps it was even the start of a bond, John wasn’t sure. But he looked at Mycroft, with his sharp, clever features, and recalled all the other moments aside from the one that repelled him, and decided, in just this moment, without questioning further what it might mean, to take Mycroft’s hand.

 


	6. Darkness, My Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [DemonicSymphony](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony) for the beta!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! Brief talk of abortion, and some internalized self-loathing.

The nurse was a gruff, weathered veteran of health care, the type of woman who looked as though she’d seen everything and John was fairly certain she had. She took his blood pressure, weight, then sent him off to the loo with a sterile cup. She then led him to a small exam room, offered him a cloth exam gown, and shuffled off while he changed.

Mycroft turned away to afford him some privacy, and John begrudgingly wrapped the gown around him, desperately trying to cover himself despite the awkwardly placed gaps and openings. He found it necessary; somehow, for Mycroft to see him in such a state made him uncomfortable, despite their previous proclivities.

Once John settled onto the exam table, he coughed uncomfortably, and Mycroft took his cue to take a seat nearby.

“Have you considered-“ Mycroft started, and John cut him off with a single finger in a ‘halt’ position.

“No. We will not be discussing anything until we’ve gotten confirmation,” John snapped, and then sighed, hunching his shoulders over. “I’m sorry. I-“

“Quite understandable, John. No apologies necessary.” Mycroft nodded and set his hand on John’s knee. He waited a moment to determine if his gesture were welcome, and when John failed to reject him, Mycroft continued on. “Today, I had a most enlightening meeting with the Chair of the US Board on Geographic Names. Apparently a new site has been discovered with items from the era of the American War of Independence. They called upon the British government to determine a name of meaningful significance that can help unite the spirits of the two nations.” Mycroft kept speaking, detailing the minutiae of a meeting of little to no significance and John appreciated the pointless banter that he could let wash over him, drenching him with Mycroft’s soothing bourbon tones.

A knock at the door surprised them both, causing John to grip Mycroft’s hand. The doctor slowly opened the door and smiled at the two of them. “Hello, John.”

John smiled at Dr. Masters, not letting go of Mycroft’s hand. She was a sweet natured younger beta, almost too young. But her skills were well known, and at least half her clientele were physicians themselves, all of whom could overlook her slightly awkward nature and distinct fashion sense in favor of her brilliant mind.

Dr. Masters looked at the chart in her hand, “Oh, I see we need to update your chart! There’s no bond listed here!”

John narrowed his eyes with a disparaging sigh, “There is no bond.”

“Oh!” Dr Masters exclaimed, a blush creeping up her face, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean, I mean, I shouldn’t have-“

John cut her off; he remembered how she could go on. “It’s fine. He is my mate, we haven’t bonded. A simple enough mistake.”

“Right, yes,” she gathered herself, and glanced back at the chart. “Well, the pregnancy test came back positive-“

John exhaled a deep breath he hadn’t know he was holding, and gripped Mycroft’s hand until his knuckles turned white.

“However, your HCG level is considerably lower than we would expect. I see on your paperwork the expected date of conception was 17 days ago?”

Mycroft nodded solemnly, while John looked down, face flushed.

“Well, that… “ she looked thoughtful for a moment, “Actually, there may be a very good reason for that.”

John gulped, and pulled Mycroft’s hand to cup in both of his own. He knew that certain cancers could affect HCG levels. He closed his eyes, waiting to hear the worst.

“We’ve seen a recent increase in pseudocyesis as the rates of unbonded, sexual active mates increases. Recent research suggests that unbonded omegas in sexual contact with their mates have a tenfold increase in pseudocyesis.”

“Pseudocyesis? False pregnancy?” John exclaimed, “You think I’m faking this?!”

Dr. Masters blushed, and stuttered, “Oh, no! No- Not that! It’s your body and your hormones that are faking- no, not faking, I mean-“ She took a deep breath and started again, “You are most likely pregnant. In the unlikely event of psuedocyesis – and it’s less than a one in one thousand chance – it simply means your endocrine system is releasing hormones that are suppressing your heat, producing HCG, and likely causing other symptoms.”

“So how do we know? Do you need a blood test?!” John’s eagerness was more than evident, and Dr. Masters frowned.

“I’m sorry. Pseudocyesis in confirmed by ultrasound. We can’t tell until for another four to six weeks.”

“You mean, there is a possibility I could  _ not _ be pregnant, but I won’t know for weeks?!” John palmed his face, and held tight to Mycroft’s hand, knowing he was causing discomfort, but not caring.

Mycroft spoke up softly, “John, if you’d prefer to be certain, I would support any decision you made, up to and including termination.”

John sighed and slumped over. “No, I can’t. I- I don’t care if other people do. But I always – I always knew that I couldn’t. I… FUCK!” he blurted out, making Dr. Master jump.

“Fuck! I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I just. I’ve always been so  bloody careful, for this exact  fucking reason. I’m nearly forty! This shouldn’t be happening to me!” He ran his fingers through his hair and then patted it back down again. Mycroft’s hand remained on John’s knee, and once he’d calmed himself down, John intertwined their fingers once again.

-o-

Despite the severity of the situation, the corners of Mycroft’s mouth curled upwards as he felt a warmth pool in his belly.  He knew that it was only John’s stress that was allowing him to reach out and seek the comforting scent that Mycroft could naturally offer, but he didn’t care. He’d grown inordinately fond of John in their limited interaction and in his surveillance of Sherlock. The omega was both amazingly tolerant of Sherlock’s peculiarities, yet in no way swayed by his little brother’s exceptional tantrums. He had the stoic resolves of the soldier, but his eyes flared with danger.

Mycroft would scarce admit it, but there were a few minutes of CCTV he’d cobbled together from John and Sherlock’s misadventures with the Yard, a few moments of John’s gorgeous strength, his quick thinking and brilliant command, that Mycroft kept on hand, just a click of his mobile away. He’d respect John’s decisions, any of them, even if it kept them apart, but he afforded himself this one luxury. But the odds were tilting in his favor, and it was a pleasure to witness the transformation in John’s judgment of him.

John allowed Mycroft to offer him a ride back to Baker St. He sat at a deliberate distance from Mycroft, having dropped the alpha’s hand to change back into his clothes and not picking it back up again. Mycroft allowed John his space, but couldn’t change the heavy thickness of pheromones filling the vehicle. The suggestion of a child, though rationally not something he desired, nor even needed, sent his instinct into overdrive. He felt a strong, near undeniable pull to cradle and protect John, to take him back to his London flat and never let him leave. To fill him with fats and protein, to massage his shoulders, thighs, feet, to kiss and hold and pleasure him repeatedly until John knew nothing but the love and care and adoration of his alpha.

But Mycroft, though he couldn’t contain his hormones, could control himself. He remained at the distance John set between them, and when they arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft gave John a wide berth as he followed him up the stairs. He would have avoided the grimy flat entirely, but he felt Sherlock needed a talk. If John  were pregnant, at the very least, the experiments in the refrigerator would need to go.

John disappeared into his room, and Mycroft settled into John’s chair. He took a deep breath, inhaling the lingering scent of his strapping, tantalizing omega and then, with his back turned to Sherlock, who was fussing about with his chemistry set at the kitchen table, he spoke.

“No experiments in the refrigerator, Sherlock. No noxious fumes in the flat. You will not place John Watson in undue danger, nor will allow yourself to be endangered, encouraging his sense of honor to save you. Do I make myself understood?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mycroft! In under three weeks, not only have you bedded him, you bred him as well?!”

Mycroft scoffed, “It is unlike you to state something so obvious.”

“It is unlike you to be so obvious; so ordinary. Tripping over yourself to impregnate your omega before he’s even had his first heat.”

“This is exactly what I mean Sherlock. All your experience is academic. It is unwise of you to proffer opinions in that which you have no experience.”

“In my  _ esteemed _ experience,” Sherlock spat caustically, “John will be livid if you attempt to control his participation in cases or his work.”

“I will not ask John to change anything. But I will expect you to care for yourself as a grown man, and not allow yourself to be so reckless as to endanger him, do you understand me?”

-o-

John barricaded himself in his room, locking the door to emphasize his need for privacy, though he knew that should Sherlock wish to enter, that the lock wouldn’t stop him. He sat on the corner of his bed and hung his head. His mind ran rampant, endlessly berating himself for getting into such an absurd situation. How bloody stupid did he have to be? How fucking weak was he that the first time an alpha offered up his cock, John fell over himself in his desperate need to impale himself upon it?

He cursed himself; he’d thought himself more in control, more aware, more clever that those  other omegas, the ones who found themselves filled with pup after pup because they couldn’t resist the scent nor the thick alluring need to be filled with their alpha. And now he was one of them. Would this be his life? Would he little better than a broodmare?

And Mycroft. How could a man that self controlled, that perfectly refined, that gorgeous and stately ever taken John seriously now? He exposed himself as just another mindless, lust-driven waste of space. He was sure he’d ruined any chance of finding a partner now. No alpha, no beta, no omega would want him now that he’d proven himself to be a wanton whore for alpha cock. Even if he’d managed to work it out with Mycroft, there is no way that Mycroft would want something so pathetic and miserably inadequate as himself.

John spotted the provisions in the corner and found himself thankful. No reason to go downstairs for days. No reason to see the disgust in Sherlock’s eyes, nor the pitying look that was sure to be in Mycroft’s. The alpha would feel responsible, but John knew that it would only be his instinct talking. There was no chance that Mycroft would consciously view him as desirable or worthy after this. Once John popped out the pup, it was likely that Mycroft would shuffle it away from John’s rubbish, wretched little life. Surely John would be seen as a bad influence, his lack of self control a disease to which Mycroft wouldn’t want his pup exposed. John burrowed into his bed, and felt himself nearly choke on his own self loathing.

After a quarter hour or so, John heard steps ascend to his room. A distinct two step and thud told John that Mycroft was coming to see him, umbrella in hand.  He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, and curled away from the door. He couldn’t possibly bear the rejection right now. He was furious to even feel so weak, that he was even capable of housing such emotions, and there was no way he would allow this failing of his to be seen.

He waited, breathing purposely steady, trying to mimic the patterns of sleep, and waited anxiously for Mycroft’s knock. At least he could expect the alpha wouldn’t pick the locks as his younger brother would. He waited, but the knock never came.  He heard a soft scuff on the floor, then moments later, the distinct sounds of Mycroft descending down to the main floor of the flat.

Once he was certain Mycroft was down the stairs, he flipped over on his other side and saw a manila envelope that had been shoved under the door. So this was how it would be. Mycroft wouldn’t even deign to see him again. John felt a deep, sinking, aching hole hollow out his chest. How useless, how low had he sunk? He wished he’d died in Afghanistan.

He made himself fetch the envelope. He might be pathetic and hopeless, but he refused to let himself cower in the corner, afraid of the truth. It was just one small action of which he could be proud. He opened the envelope and found several clippings, which he dumped onto the bed. Each was cut from newspaper and spanned the last five years.

He spread them out and read the headlines.

_ Local Student Doctor Saves Teen With Rare Disease _

_ RAMC Doc Duck Bullets, Saves Company _

_ Unknown Doctor Delivers Baby On M25 _

_ RAMC Doctor Injured, Discharged With Honors _

There were half a dozen more articles, from his alumni newsletter, his hometown news, or the occasional Guardian article. Each detailing his most illustrious achievements. The times he saved or rescued people, the times he sacrificed himself, expecting to die for the greater good, only to find himself alive at the end. Article after article, reminding him of his value. Of his worth.

John began to chuckle. Of course Mycroft would have these; once the alpha had discovered his mate, he was sure to research everything about John. But to give this to him, now, John knew it was a message. A reminder. That despite how John’s mind, his brain, his thoughts tortured and betrayed him, told him how pitiable he was, that Mycroft wanted to remind him that he could be so much more. John’s chuckled turned irrationally into laughter, and while he didn’t feel entirely free from the judgments that haunted him, by the time his laughter died down, the hollow deadness in his chest was full of appreciation, love, and fondness.

 


	7. Catch and Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Janto321](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/) for the beta!

True to his word, Mycroft did not attempt to dictate John’s affairs. However, he could not override his provider’s instinct either. At the clinic, John became accustomed to a lunch delivery, a full, healthy, hearty meal that gave him energy for the rest of the afternoon. When they were on cases, cabbies appeared out of thin air to assist in chases, waving off the pounds John attempted to thrust in their direction. Detailed, rigorous crimes scenes suddenly received anonymous catering, and John found that these new developments meant he never missed a meal. He felt more lively and alert than he had in ages; a clear stark contrast to his previous diet of near strictly take away.

John knew it was Mycroft’s doing, but he’d started to understand the alpha a bit better, and found his non-intrusive provisions almost endearing. Mycroft visited weekly, though John saw the CCTV cameras follow him during cases, and suspected that there were other methods of surveillance too. Even still, John appreciated that the alpha kept his physical distance.

John preferred to pack his days with cases, clinic hours, and additional moonlighting shifts. He avoided the right items, sticking to tea or water during pub nights, ensuring naps and strong night sleeps as often as he could.

In the quiet moments, his brain began to panic, running with the challenges of parenthood. He debated whether he was pregnant, concerned by his lack of morning sickness, then confirmed with the bloating of his belly, and the tenderness of his nipples. He still didn’t know exactly how he felt about the idea. As a much younger omega, he’d assumed that pups were the natural progression, a part of his life simply expected of him, and one he didn’t necessarily mind. But as he’d aged, with his experience as a soldier, he realised that the typical demure omega role with a litter full of pups was no longer an option he needed nor desired.

But now, as he faced the possibility, he was torn. Did he actually want a pup? Would it be better to seek adoption options? Was a pup simply an expectation of him, a stereotype embedded deep within him, or were the complicated feelings indicative of the genuine desire and craving to raise a pup of his own? Did he want to raise a pup with Mycroft?

And then there was Mycroft. Would they even work as a couple? Mycroft had been invalidating that single disastrous moment for nearly a month now. John still bristled at the thought of the command that demolished what had been a promising evening, but the considerations Mycroft had provided him, the subtle power that he kept confined to himself, the way he exhibited such self control; John was entranced, and found himself anticipating Mycroft’s next visit.

-o-

Sherlock mumbled angrily to himself the entire cab ride to the crime scene. Out of respect for his brother, and the potential pup, Sherlock had waited for Lestrade to clear them to examine the hollowed out rental store for clues.

“They will have trampled the entire crime scene, John! The things I have to sacrifice for my brother’s whims,” Sherlock groused.

“It’s not a whim, it’s a pup,” John corrected mildly; they’d had variations of this conversation for the past three weeks. Neither John’s stamina, balance, nor his medical knowledge suffered, therefore he had little patience for Sherlock’s temper tantrums. Their adventures had been a trifle less exciting, with having to abide by the Yard’s policies, but Sherlock hadn’t yet failed to solve a case under the new restrictions, so John was less inclined to take heed of his whining.

They reached the store; the windows covered from the inside with old copies of the London Times, and edges of an old green and yellow logo peeling off the center of the left window. The door was barricaded with police tape, and Sherlock brandished the key Lestrade had given him, looking at it with disdain, and used it to open the door. He moved the tape aside while John entered, then slammed the door shut behind them.

Sherlock surveyed the room for scarce more than a moment before throwing his arms up in disgust, “This is disgraceful, even for Anderson! There’s rubbish all over; evidence everywhere! I’m calling Lestrade; perhaps we can get the idiot sacked.”

A voice called out from behind the counter, “Bauer, is that you?”

John whipped his head to Sherlock, his hand automatically finding the handle of his handgun in the small of his back. Sherlock’s eyes lit with excitement, with an ecstatic ‘Oh!’

Sherlock dropped his voice, “He returned to the scene of the crime.  _ Idiot. _ ”

“Bauer?” the voice grew closer, and more alarmed. John’s weapon was at his side, and Sherlock held his arms out, silently requesting for John hold back. A man appeared from a door on the right side, and with one look, bolted out the back door.

The man raised his gun, shooting aimlessly behind him. Both John and Sherlock dodged behind the counters, and John, refusing to accept defeat, began to pursue the suspect. Sherlock pulled him back, and John turned with surprise, tugging his arm from Sherlock’s grasp. He began to open his mouth in protest, but Sherlock tilted his head and glanced down briefly to John’s abdomen and back up.

John’s eyes widened slightly and his shoulders slumped. He sighed as Sherlock began to text rapidly, and tucked the gun back into the small of his back. He ran a hand through his hair, waiting for Sherlock to disparage him, mock him, or curse him for holding them back, for letting his  _ condition _ cost them the chase.

But Sherlock waited silently, eyes glued to his mobile, and the room was so still John could hear the vibrations of the text received from four meters away. Sherlock mumbled, “Of course he did.” Without another word, Sherlock walked out of the shop, leaving John to follow.

Sherlock hailed a cab and climbed in, but John noticed that he checked the reflection in the glass for John’s presence before settling in. Sherlock barked an order to the cabbie, and checked his mobile once more before groaning and shoving it into the pocket of his Belstaff.

John waited another few minutes and finally snapped, “Well?”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, searching John’s, “Oh. Yes. Well-“ Sherlock looked back at the mobile, sneered at the empty messages, and continued, “Lestrade confirmed the man who fled the scene was Speight, but he didn’t know about Bauer, nor was he capable of catching the man before he eluded them. Useless, the whole lot of them.”

John nodded, looking at his feet and staring at the scuffs on his shoes until the cab stopped in front of Baker St. He trudged up the stairs after the cabbie refused payment, and flopped down into his armchair, toeing off his shoes and kicking them off the side.

This is what it would be like.

Him, holding back, losing suspects, costing Sherlock, costing  _ the Yard _ murder suspects. These people, on the streets, among the public, because John couldn’t take the risk. And that was just his work with Sherlock. How much worse would it be for Mycroft? A man with such power, such influence, and a child, well. John didn’t think a child could properly grow up with one father in foreign country two weeks of every four, and the other risking life and limb trying to satisfy his lust for danger.

And just like that, John realised that he’d finally come to a decision.

Adoption.

He’d give the child up. There were couples all over London, England, the world over who could devote their time, sacrifice their lifestyles, for the chance at a child. It was really the best option.

A weight lifted from his soul at the realisation. He’d carry to term and the child would go to a loving home. Mycroft would be sure to see to it. He started considering his next steps. Would the adoption be open? Would he want to see someone else raise his child? Would Mycroft? He sat in the chair, relaxed as he thought of his future, he and Mycroft visiting their child during summer break, maybe offering the pup’s parents money for a solid education. That they would be more like… the eccentric uncles of the family, who lavished their pup with fun gifts and astonishing tales of crime solving. Perhaps Mycroft could even tell his own tales, over a picnic in the park, or under the stars at a country home in Sussex to which he and Mycroft could sneak away.

And as he sat, mind wandering, he dreamt of holidays at a Spanish beach, where he could feel warm sand beneath his toes, where Mycroft would have to wear a ridiculous floppy hat to protect that beautifully pale skin spattered with freckles, and he would hide under a large umbrella, while John attempted to pry the most recent foreign crisis file from his hands.

He dwelt on ice cream, melting down cones as they walked along a boardwalk littered with tourist shops and kitschy souvenirs. Licking the sweetness off of Mycroft’s fingers, one by one, until they were both panting in need and rushing back to the hotel suite.

“How revolting,” Sherlock sneered, snapping him out of his reverie. “It is unfortunate that of all the omega stereotypes you defy, daydreaming about your pup with your lovesick idealism isn’t one of them.”

Without thinking, John snapped, “I wasn’t thinking about the pup.”

“Then for whom exactly are the dreamy fantasies?”

John paused, for apparently just a moment too long.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, John. I thought you’d moved on from the whole Mycroft debacle. I shall never understand this brainless hormonal draw.”

“Oh, piss off, Sherlock,” John dismissed placidly, making his way to his bedroom, where he could think uninterrupted.

-o-

John woke with a start, and groaned through the morning aches of his body. He laid for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of his bed, but within just as few moments the discomfort of having slept in his clothes began to grate on his nerves. He sat and stretched deeply, allowing his muscles and joints to move with ease, and to get his blood pumping. He stripped out of the clothes he’d been wearing and tossed on a pair of soft flannel pants and white tee. The sun was starting to rise, meaning John had a surprising restful sleep, after dozing off before eight the prior evening.

He stretched a few more times, running through a few basic calisthenics which became routine over the years, and when he’d finished, he realized how unusual it was for him to sleep a full night’s worth mid case. Either Sherlock was out by himself, leaving John to recuperate, which only irritated him, or nothing new had come in, leaving Sherlock leadless and frustrated. Either way, he was hesitant to go down stairs. It was only when his stomach started growling, that he finally opened his door, and descended to the main flat.

To his surprise, Mycroft was in the flat, in his armchair, and the two brothers were glaring at each other. Mycroft was the first to acknowledge him, “Ah, hello John. Good morning. I was simply informing Sherlock here that we’ve caught his suspects. Both of them.”

“And you came by at 6:30 in the morning to tell him that?”

“I arrived a half hour ago, but yes. I couldn’t have him dragging you around town without adequate sleep.”

John sighed, no longer annoyed, just resigned to the situation, “I fell asleep quite early last night, I would have been just fine.”

“I hope that you may always be more than ‘just fine.’” Mycroft said with a soft smile, yearning in his eyes. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, “May John and I have a word?”

“You’ve been having words, what difference is it to me?” Sherlock retorted.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, intoning that Sherlock knew exactly what he meant, and that he wouldn’t play his games.

Sherlock stood up with a huff, “Fine.” He stormed off to his bedroom and slammed the door.

Mycroft transferred to Sherlock’s chair, allowing John to sit in his own. John sat, and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, tempting scent that Mycroft left behind.

“John,” Mycroft began, examining John with a thorough eye, “You look rather fetching this morning.”

John settled himself a bit awkwardly, and muttered, “Thank you.”

Mycroft continued on, “I suspect, given yesterday’s events, that perhaps you have been considering our situation more thoroughly. I wondered if you had come to some sort of decision?”

“Adoption,” John blurted bluntly. “We can’t reasonably raise a pup. Your obligations, my chasing after Sherlock. It doesn’t make sense.” John paused, taking a deep breath, “Do you approve?”

“Obligations aside, John. Is it what you  _ want? _ ”

John nodded without hesitation, “Yes.”

“Then I approve.”

 


	8. When All is Said and Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [HumsHappily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily) for the beta. 
> 
> This chapter didn't quite go as I expected, so I'm not exactly sure, but I think maybe the next chapter might be the last? Don't quote me on that.

John stepped off the scale. Today was his six week appointment, going by the date of conception, and he’d gained six pounds. He frowned at the softness accumulating at his belly, surely a side effect of Mycroft’s doting, but John couldn’t deny how alert and focussed he felt. He dressed; his clothes still fit comfortably, and jogged down the stairs. He shouted a good-bye to Sherlock on the way out, and shut the door to Baker Street without bothering to wait for a response.

He smiled at the black car waiting, opened the door, and slid in. He sat far closer to Mycroft than was strictly necessary, but his affection for the alpha had been growing over the last few weeks. Mycroft offered his hand, palm up, and John joined their hands, locking their fingers together. For the duration of the short trip, John’s check in, and their wait for the nurse, Mycroft kept in constant contact; holding hands, helping him from the car, a strong but delicate touch at the small of his back as they walked into the door. John felt the warmth of his instinct rise and basked in the feeling.

The same gruff nurse from before called them back to the exam room. She took John’s blood pressure and weight, collected his urine, and offered the same bare gown from before. As the door shut, John shucked off his trousers, watching Mycroft from the corner of his eye. The alpha turned his head downwards, but John could see him stealing glances. He blushed, but continued to remove his clothing, sitting on the exam bed once ready.

Mycroft placed a hand on his knee, and Dr. Masters entered the room, wheeling in an ultrasound machine.

“Well, let’s see those pups, shall we?”

-o-

“I’m sorry,” John gaped, “say that again?!”

“I- I don’t see any pups. Let me call the specialist,” Dr. Masters stuttered, wheeling her stool over to the phone. She picked it up, dialled, but John didn’t hear a word. He looked at Mycroft, who remained completely stoic, and wrapped his hand around his belly. He was so certain, so sure that he’d been bringing up a pup. He felt a wicked sort of relief, then guilt at the very thought. He pushed his thoughts away, refusing to think on it a moment without confirmation.

He recited med school mnemonics, Plot of Earth Pllants, Some Lovers Try Positions They Can’t Handle, and the like to keep his mind occupied while he waited. Finally, he heard a knock at the door, and Dr. Masters allowed in a nurse in scrubs.

“This is Charlotte, our ultrasound specialist. She’ll confirm the findings.”

John sat anxiously through the next twenty minutes; Mycroft’s hand tight on his thigh the only indication of the alpha’s nerves.

The technician looked at the doctor, and with nod of her head, turned the screen to John.

He looked, staring at an empty sac. No embryo, no fetus, no placenta. Empty.

He looked back and forth between them. “So, I’m not- I mean, there’s no- why have I been so hungry, then?!”

Dr. Masters looked chastised, but answered precisely, “A change in diet, perhaps? A near placebo effect? If you thought you were pregnant, you may have eaten better?”

John looked to Mycroft, who shrugged.

“So, if it’s a false pregnancy, what do I do?” John asked, his voice rising inexplicably.

Dr. Masters looked at Mycroft, then him, and back to Mycroft. “Sir,” she addressed, “May I ask to speak to John in private?”

Mycroft stood hastily, “Of course.” He left, and John watched him leave. He felt the acute hollowness of Mycroft’s absence. He turned back to the doctor.

“So why’d he have to leave?”

“John,” Dr. Masters sighed, “There are two treatment options available for this. But this has to be your choice, and cannot be influenced by the alpha.

John nearly corrected her, nearly said  _ my alpha,  _ but held his tongue.

“You may take hormones. The hormones will eliminate the pregnancy symptoms, but will give you a falsified mating scent. You won’t be able to mate with the appropriate alpha, should you decide to do so. Others will believe you to be mated, making it harder to find the alpha of your choosing. However, you will remain independent, and will not be bothered by unwanted alpha contact.”

“And the other option?” John asked.

“The only other option is to bond with the alpha who has put you in this state. Mycroft, I presume?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s him.”

“If you could imagine bonding with him, then do so. It’s the easiest, least invasive way to reset your hormones. But should you not prefer his company, then the artificial hormones are your best bet.”

“I see why you asked him to leave,” John commented.

“The decision is up to you, John. You’ll have to choose one of these treatment options, or your body will believe itself to be pregnant, up to years on end. I’d not wait more than a month to decide.”

“Right,” John answered, still in a bit of a daze. “Thank you.”

Dr. Masters left the room, leaving John to think about his options by himself. He changed into his clothes, and met Mycroft in the lobby.

“Well?” Mycroft asked.

“I dunno. I’ve loads to think about,” John offered lamely. He still didn’t know if he wanted to bond with Mycroft. He didn’t even know if Mycroft wanted to bond with him. He certainly couldn’t push the issue, not after he’d turned Mycroft down in myriad of ways. But would it be worth potentially turning away the only alpha he’d ever considered?

He sat further away from Mycroft on the car ride home, and ignored Mycroft’s hand positioned strategically between them.

All he wanted was to curl up on his bed, and sleep away this whole dilemma. If he were being truly honest, he wished that for just right now, he were the sort to have a pack to turn to, for bonding and piling. He’d only ever wanted that pack feel a handful of times in his life, the most recent of which was the day he’d learned that one bullet had cost him two careers.

But just for today, he wanted a den, and a pack, and the warmth of their bonds.

-o-

Mycroft waited for John to retreat to his bedroom, then walked up the stairs to his brother’s flat. Sherlock looked up from the kitchen table.

“Well?” he asked.

“Pseudocyesis,” Mycroft responded, keeping his voice devoid of emotion.

“And?” Sherlock inquired.

“He must think on it,” Mycroft replied, but this time, he couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice.

“You didn’t tell him you know the only treatments.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and muttered with disgust, “ _ Hormones.  _ Just talk to him. He’s a reasonable man.”

“I won’t pressure him, Sherlock. He’s to arrive at his decision on his own terms.”

“And in the meanwhile? Can I go back to my life?”

Mycroft frowned, “You’ve solved every case, and you’ve been considerably less reckless in the last few weeks. Why must you rush headfirst back into the same dangers as before?”

“It’s stagnating,” Sherlock spat, “The downtime? To sit around and wait seeps at my mind, leaving me weak and ineffectual. No, I won’t do it if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

Mycroft regarded him, irritation radiating from every pore. It made Sherlock tetchy, and Mycroft rather enjoy the power of it. Once satisfied that Sherlock understood his point of view, Mycroft carefully made his to the stairs. He had matters to which he needed to attend.

-o-

John woke, hours later, comfortable and cuddled against a warm form. Without thinking, he curled more deeply into the person at his back, and slowly recovered from an exhaustive night’s sleep. He looked at the hand draped over his belly, and recognized Mycroft’s ring. With a deep breath, he confirmed that it was Mycroft holding him closely, gripping him tightly, and John felt a fullness in his chest he couldn’t name.

Part of him felt guilty, Mycroft’s presence in his bed meant he wasn’t off elsewhere saving the world. However, his inner omega preened, thrilled to wake up next to his alpha, desperate to claim him, mate him, own him.

John held himself in complete restraint. There were certainly delicate issues that needed to be resolved or worked through. He snuggled into Mycroft, though he was resolutely awake. He intended to enjoy the misplaced affection for as long as possible.

In his sleep, Mycroft held him close, and John allowed him to do so. If he was sure Mycroft wanted a mate, wanted him as a mate, John pondered, he expected he’d accept.

John checked the alarm, seeing that it was after dinner time. He was loathe to move, and instead catalogued the feeling of Mycroft’s body against him. The warm breath rising and falling over the back of his neck, how Mycroft’s arm slotted against his own, with his hand gently over what would have been the swell of a child. The way his long legs fit into John’s, with their knees bent. John was consumed with the scent, and had brief visions of never washing his sheets until not a molecule of Mycroft’s remained.

He felt pleasant and warm, and as the clock ticked by the minutes, John wondered how he might even begin the conversation of bonding. Mycroft had been amenable before, had he ruined it? Although, their position, the way the alpha cocooned him, suggested Mycroft hadn’t changed his mind at all. The reassurance made him content, and he noted belatedly that Mycroft’s scent must be leaving his brain a bit fuzzy, and just a touch euphoric.

John took deep, gulping breaths, enjoying the way Mycroft’s pheromones were affecting him, when he noticed that he must be emitting his own pheromones, as Mycroft was starting to become aroused.

With a slightly drunken amusement, John began rolling his hips, near imperceptibly at first. He felt Mycroft grow against him, and threaded his fingers into Mycroft’s on his torso, and kept the small motions up. John remembered just how phenomenal the sex had been, and felt himself grow slick. His hips moved a bit faster, pushing against Mycroft a bit harder, and his breathing became a bit louder, imagining how fully Mycroft had filled him before. How completely, and how badly he wanted it again.

Suddenly, Mycroft’s hand clenched, and Mycroft rolled his own hips against John, causing them both to gasp. He gave a strangled whisper, not stopping his rutting against John, “Are you sure? That you want this?”

John answered by tugging Mycroft’s hand down to where his own cock had grown hard, and groaned as Mycroft guided their hands over the length. He rocked John between his own arousal and their combined hands with the gentle roll of his hips.

John exposed his neck a bit further, and Mycroft lifted his head to nip at the flesh offered up to him. Mycroft growled low; and flipped John onto his stomach, pulling his hand from John’s. He tugged on John’s jeans and John tilted his pelvis upwards to allow Mycroft to undo the button, zipper and to pull the jeans down and off him. John scrambled to pull off his jumper, and once John was fully naked, Mycroft growled again, licking a long stripe up his spine to his neck.

John felt Mycroft flush against him, still fully clothed; the only thing missing was the suit jacket. He nipped at John’s neck, and John cried out with pleasure. He didn’t know if Mycroft would try to bond him here and now, but he didn’t care. Mycroft pulled back, and John heard him mutter, “Lovely, just lovely,” as he pulled John’s hips up higher.

Mycroft slipped two fingers into his arse and John whined; they simply weren’t enough. He heard Mycroft fumble with his belt and zipper, and the fingers were gone, replaced by the bulging head of Mycroft’s cock.

“God, yes,” John pushed up with his hands, and felt himself open wide. Mycroft nearly snarled at John’s assertiveness, but John heard how he held himself back. The understated authority shot through John and he slumped near boneless, submitting before Mycroft, suddenly desperate and aching to please him.

Mycroft huffed behind him a pained “ _ Christ, _ ” at John’s wanton display, and slid deeply into John, breaking him open piece by piece, John anxious and all but begging to be full. John whimpered as Mycroft’s suit pressed against him, and Mycroft leaned over his back to speak in a deep, seductive voice. “You are exquisite, John, so hot, so wet, so tight.”

John could barely stand that Mycroft wasn’t moving, “Please, just....  _ just move. _ ”

Mycroft stayed still, voice like bourbon melting into John’s every pore, “But you like it when I’m in control. You like that I can restrain myself.”

It wasn’t a question, but John answered anyways, “Yes, fuck yes, just  _ please. _ ”

“Then tell me, my gorgeous omega, tell me  _ exactly _ what you want me to do you.”

John was aching to be filled. “Just fuck me!” he pleaded.

Mycroft chuckled, refusing to move. “But how? Fast? Slow? Hard? Gentle? Do you want to feel loved and nurtured?” Mycroft pressed soft kisses to the back of his neck. “Or do you want to be ravaged?” Mycroft bit his shoulder, and John cried out, knowing he’d have a mark when they were done.

John thought on his sentiments earlier. “Slow. I- it’s- just-“ his cheeks grew red and he couldn’t finish the sentence for the embarrassment it caused.

But Mycroft seemed to understand. He pressed gentle kisses over the bite mark, and murmured, “You just need to be cherished.”

John nodded, too mortified to speak.

Mycroft pushed himself up, “Give me a moment, and I will simply worship you.”

John whimpered as Mycroft pulled out, leaving him empty and wanting. Mycroft’s hand on his hip encouraged John to turn onto his back, and Mycroft climbed off the bed, disrobing as fast as his fingers allowed.

He came back to the bed, and sat near John, and patted his lap. John crawled onto his lap, with his knees on either side. Mycroft wrapped his arms all the way around him, as John descended onto his cock, slow and steady, and with gorgeous halting whimpers. Mycroft could have melted into the heat of John’s body. He held the omega close as John rose up and down his length. Mycroft rocked back and forth, adding more friction, pressing them tightly together, John’s nose at his neck, frantically seeking more of Mycroft’s scent.

Mycroft muttered quietly, reverently, “Sublime, my sweet John, how fiercely I crave you.” He let his hands wander the expanse of John’s deltoids, his flank, the firmness of his arse.

John wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, and started to kiss warm wet blooms over Mycroft’s neck. John felt Mycroft quiver underneath him, and knew how badly Mycroft must have wanted to ravage him, take what he could, bond to him with an almost violent force. Most bondings were rather known for their intensive, animalistic passion they produced.

And to feel Mycroft hold that back, to devote himself wholly to John’s needs, his wants, his desires; John was rapturously thrilled, his body singing its praises of his alpha, and he pulled back, looking into Mycroft’s eyes.

“If- I’d-“ John stopped his hips for a moment, the pleasure too distracting for him to properly form words.

Mycroft tilted his head, waiting with dark, gentle eyes and a serene smile on his face. “Anything, John. Anything you want,” he promised.

“You,” John said simply. He had to speak the words, to get them out. He couldn’t take any chances that Mycroft might misinterpret what he needed. “I need you. Want you. Alpha.  _ Mate. _ ”

Mycroft’s eyes grew large and he looked down to John’s lips, then his neck, then back up to his eyes. “Are you sure, John?”

“Please, Mycroft,  _claim me_. ” John kept his eyes locked on Mycroft’s begging him to understand, to see the depths of truth in his eyes.

Mycroft darted in for a kiss, one that started delicate and velvety, and evolved into a stormy, dangerous fervour, years of need and want and instinct rising to the surface, both anxious and ready to conjoin, to fuse alpha and omega, to belong, to bond.

John began a steady zealous pace, wringing every ounce of pleasure possible from Mycroft’s body, while Mycroft began to prepare John’s neck, tonguing deep at the gland beneath the surface. He coaxed it, teasing and sucking, tasting the haze of pheromones exuding from John’s pores.

“Almost there, my love, so close,” Mycroft spoke, lips still upon John’s skin.

“ _ Please, _ ” John barely knew what he was saying, but knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. “Tell me when you’re closer. I want to-“

John realized suddenly exactly what he wanted, and hoped that Mycroft could understand, would understand, and wouldn’t judge him for it, “Don’t just tell me- Make me-  _ Command _ me.”

Mycroft growled, deep from his throat, the very suggestion enough to send him over the edge. “Yes, oh god, my good omega,  ** come for me ** .”

John cried out through his climax, feeling the warm rush of come between them, and the sudden intensity of Mycroft, biting through his skin, marking him, claiming him, sending a rush of hormones through his body, each nerve on fire, sparking through his body when Mycroft thrust his knot upwards. John’s head lulled back, feeling wave after wave of ecstasy, as Mycroft’s cock throbbed inside him.

He heard, as though underwater, “Gorgeous, perfect, John, my love, so good.” Mycroft lapped at his neck, cleaning the wound, then pulled John down for a drowsy kiss. John could taste the tang of his own blood on Mycroft’s lips, and the tingle of hormones on his own. His head bobbed a bit as Mycroft shuffled them back against the headboard to wait out the knot. Mycroft tucked John’s head into his neck, and let himself tease and taste the bondmark as John drifted, hazy and sedated, on the cocktail of his own hormones, and the pleasure of obeying Mycroft’s command.


	9. Written In Our Instincts

John awoke, clean and comfortable under soft sheets, with Mycroft at his back. He made to move and groaned; being knotted outside his heat had its consequences, but it was necessary. He looked back to Mycroft, his alpha, his _bondmate_ , and reached up to his neck to feel the bite. He smiled to himself, standing to get dressed, and looked at himself in the mirror. The bite was new, but it didn’t define him. He looked exactly the same. The same doctor, soldier, and omega he was before.

But the soft, affectionate smile? That was new.

He woke Mycroft up with a cup of tea. Mycroft sat up, crossed his legs, and somehow still managed to retain his stately demeanour, despite his complete lack of clothing and mussed hair. He accept the cup with grace, and took a few sips to wake himself up.

He examined John, scrutinising his expression, then said with suppressed delight, “You have no regrets about last night.”

It wasn’t a question, but John answered anyway, with a grin, “No. Not one.”

“I imagine-“ Mycroft stopped himself, “No, I’m sorry. What I meant to say is, how do  _ you _ imagine our arrangement?”

“I don’t know,” John answered honestly, “I’ve thought about it, but I’m not sure what’s best. I’m guessing you’d want for us to live together, but I can’t imagine leaving Sherlock by himself. I can’t imagine him agreeing to live with you, so then I’m not sure what to do.” He looked at Mycroft, suddenly realising that Mycroft had already thought this through, but wanted John’s thoughts on the matter to be heard and considered first. “But I’m guessing you’ve already an idea. What do you think?”

“I travel frequently. My flat would be lonely many nights. I see no reason to disrupt what we’ve accustomed ourselves to, with a few minor adjustments. I’d like to see you nights when I’m home and you haven’t a case, when you are interested. I want you to feel as though my home is yours. I’d like to share your heats, should you wish to continue having them. At my home though, not Sherlock’s. Does that seem reasonable?”

John nodded, eyes wide. He never suspected that Mycroft would be content letting his omega bondmate continue to live with his alpha brother. But then, John thought, that always was what attracted him to Mycroft; Mycroft’s ability to control his instincts, that true demonstration of his power. John licked his lips, and Mycroft smiled into his tea.

They sat for a moment, on John’s bed, facing each other, enjoying the quiet; the daylight sneaking in through the window hesitantly, hidden behind the cloudy sky.

Distantly, a door slammed, and Mycroft set down his tea, “And his highness returns.” He unfolded himself off the bed, and began to dress.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice bellowed through the house, “Lestrade texted, we’ve a case!”

Mycroft came up to John, buttoning the last button on his waistcoat. He placed his hands on John’s hips, and a soft kiss to his lips. He leaned to whisper in John’s ear, “To the first of many quiet moments stolen together.” As he pulled back, he dwelt a moment to trace the healing bondmark with the tip of his tongue.

John’s breath hitched, but Sherlock’s voice echoed back up the stairs, ruining anything that might be considered a mood.

“Mycroft! Unlatch yourself from John this instant! We must go!”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I’m coming!” John hollered back.

“I don’t need the details!” Sherlock yelled back with disgust.

John looked at Mycroft, tilted his head and crooked a brow in disbelief.

“Yes, I do believe that is exactly what he said,” Mycroft answered John’s unspoken question, and they both broke into gales of laughter, as they made their way out of the flat.

-o-

John was wearing his jacket, the collar of which covered the better part of his new mark. It might have been unnoticed, but like any newly bonded, he couldn’t stop himself from unconsciously touching it, feeling the swell of Mycroft’s bite. Greg was the first to notice, and offered a smile and a simple “Congratulations!”

The case was interesting, John would give it that much. Half of London's chefs wanted the food critic dead; he was brutal and unnecessarily cruel in his reviews, so the fact that Sherlock sussed out he was poisoned in under a minute didn’t really help much.

John stood back for a bit while Sherlock grilled the wife, but after five minutes or so of his relentless badgering, John stepped in. “Sherlock, her husband’s just passed; you can’t expect her to remember much right now. She’s still in shock,” he laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock looked down at his hand, then to the woman.

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes, then affected a false frown and looked to the woman, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She looked to John, as if she couldn’t quite believe that Sherlock would bother pretending at this point, and John shrugged apologetically. At least he was relieving her of Sherlock’s persistent barrage of questions.

“Greg says the mother-in-law lives next door, why don’t you question her?” John suggested. As Sherlock darted to the next door, John hollered “And at least try to be sympathetic?!”

John watched Sherlock’s face fall into acting mode, and figured he’d done his good deed for the day. He made his way back to Lestrade, who was talking to the new constable, McLaughlin. When he approached, McLaughlin clapped him on the back, “Good work, doctor! Fine catch!”

John laughed, touching his bondmark again, “I sure as hell think so!” He wasn’t entirely sure how McLaughlin knew Mycroft, but he supposed with Sherlock around as much as he was, it only made sense that the force was familiar with the elder Holmes as well.

He asked Greg a few questions about the most recent restaurants that had been reviewed, making a note of it for later. At least once per case, John’d collected a bit of information in his notebook that Sherlock had originally overlooked. It always lead to a new lead, a new idea, or sparked some unknown connection within Sherlock’s mind palace, so he never stopped taking notes.

He and Lestrade had moved on from the case, and onto the current season of football, when Sherlock finally left the house next door and shouted, “John, let’s go!” as he hailed a cab.

“Sorry,” John apologised to Lestrade, rushing to catch up before Sherlock went off without him. He ran towards Sherlock, when Anderson cut him off.

“Dr. Watson,” he started, and John looked at him oddly; Anderson never showed a modicum of respect before. “I think, I mean, you don’t have to be at his beck and call. You’ve never been an obedient omega type before, and you shouldn’t have to start now.” Anderson looked down at his feet awkwardly, “Just, stand up for yourself, okay?”

Confused, John answered, “I will.” He was about to run off again, but thought enough to say, “Thank you.” Anderson, as another omega, obviously thought he was looking out for John, and John appreciated the effort, however misguided.

-o-

During a lull in the afternoon, while Sherlock waited for Molly to analyse the contents of the critics stomach, John convinced him to return back to Baker Street in lieu of badgering her.

“Dammit. Mycroft,” Sherlock noted with a gesture as they got out of the cab. “Why’s he still here?”

“Are you actually asking why my alpha is still at my house less than twenty four hours after our bonding?”

Sherlock made a noise that made clear his feelings, yet again, on the matter of bonds. John, yet again, ignored him, and headed up the stairs. Mycroft sat in John’s chair, closing his laptop as John came in. He stood, coming over to John and nosing at the bondmark.

“Waiting for Molly to run samples?” Mycroft asked as he crowded against John, draping himself over his omega, instinct begging him to hold John tight and not let go.

John allowed the affection, knowing how difficult his absence for the last several hours must have been. He looked up at Mycroft, to the seat where Mycroft had been seeking his scent, then laughed warmly. “Using my jumper as an afghan, were we?”

Mycroft shrugged, his arms still around John’s waist, “I won’t interfere with your work, John, but it would be monumentally stupid of me to completely deny my instinct.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Quite.”

“Yes, Sherlock here was simply sure the pack compulsion was all in my head. So as an adolescent, he neutralised his entire room, himself, all his belongings to experiment on me. And how did that end?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Sherlock dismissed, “Deleted it.”

Mycroft turned to John, “Have you ever wondered why he absolutely refuses to clean?”

“He’s a git?” John guessed.

“Why don’t you fetch a bit of steel wool, and I’ll show you?”

As John moved towards the kitchen, Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Fine,” Sherlock snarled at Mycroft. “You pinned me down in a scalding shower trying to scrub the neutral scent off me with a broken arm and some steel wool.”

John looked with surprise from Sherlock to Mycroft, who nodded, then said, “And what did we learn?”

“You’re an obsessive pain in the arse?”

“And?”

With a dead tone and a sneer on his face, Sherlock answered, “Pack compulsion is a legitimate condition.”

Mycroft raised a brow at Sherlock and smirked. He turned back to John, “How was the case?”

“Interesting enough,” John shrugged, “Some of the blokes offered their congratulations.”

“Yes,” Sherlock complained, “To me as well. As though it made any sense to compliment me on  _ your _ bond.”

Dawning realisation came over John, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“You idiot,” Mycroft said, “They thought  _ you _ had bonded with John.”

“What, why?” Sherlock asked, “I’ve made it quite clear I don’t do relationships.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft explained with an indulgent smile, “You’ve moved in with omega, starting taking him to crimes scenes, and he shows up with a bondmark? Balance of probability.”

John could already sense Mycroft’s hormones, eager to claim John, his instinct irritated by the Yard’s assumption that John had chosen Sherlock and not him. John leaned back into Mycroft, placing his arms over Mycroft’s to placate him. “The sofa might be more comfortable.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Mycroft replied with a low growl, pulling him towards the stairs, “I’m afraid it’s going to have to be the bed.”

-o-

Two days later, John and Sherlock found themselves at another fresh crime scene of a similar poisoning to the food critic. John stood back to watch Sherlock, and hoped for an opening to arise with Lestrade where he could clear the misconception over his bondmate.

The opportunity arose just moments later. Sherlock stormed over to John and Lestrade with a scowl, pointing to a black car in the distance. “My brother has arrived. Thank you Lestrade, for the monumental stupidity of your team making this a necessity.”

“What?” Lestrade looked at him, “I’ve only met him once, what the hell are you on about?”

As Mycroft made his way over to John and Sherlock, civilians and Yard employees alike darted out of his path, leaving him a wide berth. Lestrade watched with confusion. Yes, the elder Holmes was well dressed and had a sense of authority about him, but that was no reason to show him such deference.

He was nearly seven yards away when Lestrade drew a sharp breath, and placed his hand to his waist, “Am I going to need a tranquiliser?”

John laughed. Mycroft’s pheromones were on overdrive, scaring away omegas, betas, and even alphas, but John was half hard at the delectable scent. He explained, “No, Lestrade, it’ll be fine. You’ll understand in a moment.”

Mycroft reached them, and John could see the tension in both Lestrade and Sherlock. Mycroft address them all in turn, “John, Sherlock, Detective Inspector.”

He stepped up to John, and with a gentle voice, as to not be heard by even Lestrade just an arm’s length away, asked, “May I?”

John smiled, appreciating that even now, as Mycroft wanted to publicly declare their intent, that he didn’t just stake ownership, but asked for approval. John’s thoughts, opinions, even his autonomy mattered to Mycroft, and so he grinned, “Yeah, of course.”

Mycroft smiled, gently wrapping his arm around John, then tilting up his chin with one hand. He kissed John, passionately, but not obscenely, then nuzzled into his neck, where his teeth scraped against the bondmark, causing John’s own pheromones to permeate the air.

“Oh,” A small gasp of understanding escaped Lestrade.

John broke away, flushed and beaming. “Lestrade, this is my alpha, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Lestrade. You’ve met before, I believe?”

Mycroft nodded and offered out his hand. Lestrade accepted it meekly, still slightly overpowered by Mycroft’s dominant pheromones, “Detective Inspector, I appreciate your tolerance of my brother, and your mutually beneficial arrangement. I will assure you that John still intends on accompanying him to your cases; I believe that is an ideal situation for us all.”

Lestrade chuckled, “I think you’re right. Nice meeting you again.”

Mycroft turned back to John, “May I take you to dinner, if you have what you need here?”

John looked to Sherlock, who refused to make eye contact and shrugged. John laughed, “I suppose that’s the best blessing we’re going to see from him.”

Mycroft let his eyes drift over the crime scene. “You’ll want to arrest the Daily Mail Editor’s PA. I’ll leave the details to Sherlock.”

Sherlock pouted further, refusing to look in their direction at all. Mycroft led John from the scene, a hand at the small of his back until they entered the car, ignoring the gaping looks from Anderson, Donovan, and a few other department members who realised the money they thought they’d won in the pool would have to be returned.

“How do you feel about Greek cuisine, tonight?” Mycroft asked after they were settled in their seats.

John gave a sly smile, sliding close to him on the leather seats.

“Do they have a private room, too?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com), and you can find more Johncroft at [MycroftAndJohn](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com).


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